


the emotional revival of dogmeat

by ficfucker



Series: seduction through true crime - a dogtruth collection [2]
Category: Last Podcast on The Left (Podcast) RPF
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, i guess? depends on how you take it, uh this is just a bro helping out a bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: how else is marcus supposed to recover from being a sept 11th zombie?





	the emotional revival of dogmeat

**Author's Note:**

> sorry in advance

Marcus smells like Ben’s shampoo. He can smell him from here. His hair is still wet, hanging in dark curls around the nape of his neck, little tendrils squiggling around the curves of his ears. Marcus is wearing one of Ben’s shirts, an old blue, grey, and red flannel that hangs off Marcus like he’s a 10 year old who’s raided his father’s closet for dress up. He’s in a pair of his own sweats, which he must have left at Ben’s house a long while back and Ben had discovered while looking for clothes while Marcus was showering. 

“Want a beer?” Ben offers. 

Marcus doesn’t turn from the television. It’s flickering some documentary about Hunter S. Thompson, flashing black and white photos of Richard Nixon with an inflammatory voice over narration. “Sure, Ben,” Marcus answers. 

Ben stands, goes to the kitchen. There’s never a shortage of alcohol. He grabs two Bud Lights by their slender, caramel necks and brings them back into the living room, passes one to Marcus who takes it with a small smile. 

"Ya know, I haven't had a beer in oh, at least a month now." 

"Christ, that's why you're losing your mind." 

Marcus untops his and takes a nice long sip, air-toasts to Ben with dead eyes. “Gotta keep it together if Henry is the one getting hammered.” 

They’re both silent a beat, neither truly focused on the television, but sitting in front of it as it produces noise and color. Ben sips his drink, rubs the cap between his index and thumb. 

Marcus says, “We should do a fourth episode.” 

“Marcus, no 9/11 talk, for Christ’s sake-” 

“Th-There’s so much  _ more _ we haven’t even covered yet! Files and footage and other - different theories that I’m sure  _ Henry _ hasn’t even gotten into and I  _ know _ folks listening want to hear more on-” 

“Three episodes is more than enough,” Ben says firmly. 

Marcus takes a swig of his Bud. “No way, man. You should see some of the sites I got bookmarked right now. All new stuff to bring to the table.” 

Ben sighs. “How long had you been in studio after we’d all gone?” 

Marcus shrugs, noncommittal. Ben can see his eyes flicker as a gunshot goes off on screen. “I ‘unno. Couple a hours, maybe. I let the girls go home while I finished up some videos, put a few things into docs, ya know, little stuff like that.” 

“Little stuff,” Ben repeats. “And you and Carly? How’s that?” 

Marcus grimaces, like he’s guilty. “On break, she says. Been too, uh, too  _ distant _ with her lately.” He turns a palm over in an “eh, what can you do?” type gesture. “Says I’ve been hollow. And I mean, she’s  _ right _ .” 

“Yeah.” 

Ben watches as a droplet of water slopes down Marcus’s nape, disappears under his flannel. 

“Sometimes I just,” Marcus starts, but he trails off. He exhales through his nose, looks down at his drink, his blue eyes washed out and faded. “I go outside and I can see the spot. Where the towers had been and I jus’. I look at that spot, ya know? I stand there and just look and it’s so… close to where I am. And I’ve been needin’ to sleep with noise on. Music or the TV or - I just need - I can  _ hear _ it. In my head.” 

Ben’s heart pinches. They’ve covered a lot of rough topics in the past. Ben has seen the shock gore, the found footage, the leaked videos of suicides, beheadings. 9/11 is particularly rough. For all of them. Henry gets heated fast as lightning, angry with no place to actually put it other than yelling into empty skulls. It’s not like it will fix what has already happened. Marcus sits, haunted, hollow, a scarecrow man, talks about all the beeping and screaming and burning he can hear. Phantom noise when he’s alone with the quiet of the world. He laughs numbly at times, when him and Ben are on the phone together. Henry bursts into tangents unprompted, gets on his soap box until he erupts with tears once the steam is gone from him. 

And here Ben is, caught between Henry’s anger, between Marcus and his scooped out mind. They’re all frustrated and helpless. 

“Let’s quit podcasting all together. Drop acid full time.” 

Marcus laughs smally. “Be regular ole’ Jim Jones’ with our drugs.” 

“I was thinking more Aum Shinrikiyo.” 

A genuine smile splits. Marcus turns to look at Ben, suddenly excited, his eyes more animated than Ben has seen from him in at least a week. “So you  _ have _ been readin’ what I send you.” 

Ben smiles back, gives a one shoulder shrug. “We’re planning on covering them in the future, aren’t we? I can’t always be knee deep in frozen dinners with no reading material.” 

Marcus giggles, bobs his head in a nod. Relief bleeds into Ben, seeing his friend turn human again, even if it only lasts a moment. 

Another blanket of silence spreads over them, but it seems more comfortable than before, less like Marcus is a blow-up doll propped in place and more like he’s in the moment. The narrator is talking about Fear and Loathing now and Thompson’s relationship with Ralph Steadman. Ben knows about most of it already, but Marcus looks vaguely interested. His hair is curling in half-wet strands. 

Ben drains down his beer and sets the bottle on the coffee table. Marcus is still holding his absently, not drinking it, letting his fingers ghost racetracks into the moist glass.

“You gonna be alright?” Ben asks. 

Marcus glances over at him, pulls a face like Ben is being foolish. “Course, Ben. This ain’t the first time we’ve covered the…  _ horrors _ of the world.” 

“This one hits closer to home than most, though.” 

“ _ Lord _ , Ben, I’ll  _ live _ . I’m not a child,” Marcus snaps. “I’ve handled worse before.” 

In any other situation, Ben would probably hold up defensive hands, say, “Well, christ, excuse me, Marcus Parks,” but he just sits silently instead. The TV is talking about Oscar Acosta. Ben considers ordering Chinese food or a pizza, something warm and easy. Food is usually a binding between the boys. 

Ben is still thinking takeout when a message pings from Henry on his phone: 

**_Henry_ ** _ : How’s Dogmeat? A September 11th zombie? Got him in your care, Kissel? _

Ben punches in a reply, says he’s got Marcus in the apartment and they’re okay for now, that Henry doesn’t have to worry. Ben is looking down at the glow of his phone screen, watching the little bubbles of Henry’s upcoming text, when he hears Marcus suck snot up into his head. 

“Marcus?” 

Marcus shakes his head, drags Ben’s flannel sleeve under his nose. His shoulders are tight. “Christ, Ben, I- I’m not tryna  _ be _ like this right now.” He laughs a ghost laugh, which sounds more like a scoff. “This just happens sometimes lately.” 

In an attempt to be brotherly, Ben pats him twice on the back. “I get it, man. 9/11 is… It’s tough for all of us.” 

Marcus sniffles a few minutes longer, mutters about firefighters and elevators, seems embarrassed that he’s crying like this. Last time Ben has seen Marcus cry was when they were dropping acid together and Marcus kept saying the ceiling had melted off, that he could see all the details of every star above them, and he wept, laughing, at the beauty, his face wet in two gleaming lines. This is a polarizing difference. Marcus squeezes tears out as if they’re traitors to him, sloping jaggedly down his checks, keeps repeating, “The firefighters, man. The  _ beepin’ _ .”

Ben orders some Chinese food to the apartment. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


After downing a whole box of pork fried rice and picking at several pieces of chicken with his fingernails, Marcus finally retires to a second beer, coddled into himself like an infant that has finally suckled. Ben pokes at his noodles and watches Marcus out of the corner of his eye. He looks tired. Exhausted, actually, if Ben is being honest, all cried out. 

Marcus leans his head to Ben’s shoulder and blows air out of his mouth, rubs his eye with his index knuckle. The television chatters about Jack the Ripper now, a docuseries both Ben and Marcus have seen before, and Ben sets his box of lo mein on the coffee table. 

“You spending the night?” 

Marcus makes a noncommittal sound. “If you’re lettin’ me.”

“Sure. Got the uh, couch here, if it’ll fit you.” 

“Not my first time on this couch.” 

Ben nods, thinks of all the nights Marcus has spent at his apartment. More than a few times he’s made a pile of laundry on the floor near Ben’s bed and slept like that, content as hell, curled up in himself like a junkyard dog, highlighting his Texas roots in bright stereotypes that they’d laugh about with Henry the next morning.

Ben is thinking about their nights together, the shrooms and acid and pot that’s gone into their systems, when Marcus casually draws his fingers over Ben’s thigh, takes hold of his wrist. Ben startles, but doesn’t push Marcus away, doesn’t say anything at all. He keeps his eyes, somewhat unfixed, trained on the television in front of them, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the gore flashing over it. 

Marcus leads Ben’s hand to his thigh, presses his palm to the front of his crotch, and Ben nearly recoils. His heart is faster. 

“Marcus…!,” he warns, his voice hushed, a shade accusatory. 

“Part of the grieving process,” Marcus replies casual as day. He rolls his hips with an eager wave, his movements jittery like a teenager, and Ben can feel his warmth, his hardness pressed to the flat of his palm in a long line to the front of his sweatpants. 

Ben nods, his stomach filling with a confusing, somewhat unwanted heat. In a way he’d do to himself, Ben curls his fingers around Marcus, enjoys when he gasps and titters with a tinny giggle. “Just… taking your mind off things,” Ben mutters. 

Marcus, using his free hand, his other still gripping Ben’s wrist to guide him, grabs the remote and flicks off the Jack the Ripper program and quickly, with an obvious destination in mind, throws up Spotify. Ben has several Lucky Bone Show playlists downloaded to his account and Marcus picks one. The room fills with some obscure Seven Nation Army song that never hit the top 10 list. 

“Seduce ladies like this, too?” Ben asks. He feels stunned, like maybe Marcus had offered something trippy and Ben had taken it, that this is some unknown trip finally setting in and in reality, they’re actually sitting, fish-mouthed and drooling on the couch instead of doing whatever this is. 

“Not on the first date,” Marcus breathes out. He eases further back into the cushions of the couch, nuzzles his face to Ben’s shoulder, breathing his warm breath on Ben’s arm where his graphic tee sleeve ends. 

“So this isn’t our first date? That’s news to me.” 

Even unable to see his face, Ben knows that Marcus is smirking, that barracuda grin he does in studio when he gets reason to mention how cute Aileen Wournose was. “We’ve been - Our dates are  _ casual _ , Ben, you should know that.” His voice is choppy, like he’s already hysterically worked up, his hips snapping forward in short, desperate thrusts. 

“Oh, right,” Ben says dumbly. He can feel himself getting hard in his own pants, tries to will away his arousal because even with all the joking they’ve done on the show, about him being gay, about Marcus and his kinky sidelife, Ben has never fully considered Marcus anything more than a friend. His head is nice and light from alcohol, though, like it always seems to be these days, and the more Marcus squirms under his touch, the further from him his mind gets. 

Daringly, Marcus guides Ben’s hand up to his hips, starts to slip it under the waistband of his underwear and Ben opens his mouth to object, but any argument he has dies. He lets Marcus do as he wants. 

Touching Marcus, skin to skin, isn’t as weird as Ben had assumed. Ben has jerked off plenty in his lifetime and seen his fair share of gay porn (from curiousity to accidentally stumbling into that catagory), so whatever small surprise there is to gripping Marcus in his sweatpants is dulled by Ben’s solo experiences. Of course, however, when it comes to touching any other person like always, Marcus feels velvet soft, like the edge of flower petals, wet where precum has gathered and dribbled, and Ben is acutely aware of this. 

“Oh,” Marcus grits, his eyes fluttering back into his skull when Ben grips him a bit tighter. He swallows, his adam’s apple twitching like a bobber in water. “This is… a good song.” Foothills by the Violent Femmes is playing, the yellow album cover of We Can Do Anything bathing them in a putrid light that makes them look sickly and hyper detailed. 

“Be quiet, Marcus. Can’t you focus on one thing at a time?” 

“What, like you  _ jerkin’ _ me off? Want my attention on you when yer touchin’ my  _ cock _ , Ben?” 

Ben shifts side to side on the couch. It sounds so much like the faux dirty talk they get into on the show, Henry leaping into descriptions of BDSM scenes in a husky, shaking voice, Marcus giggling in a trilling, fluttering pitch, Ben “yes, and?”ing the both of them until they disolve into laughter and get back on topic. “That wasn’t an invitation for dirty talk, you know.” 

Marcus rolls his hips again, grinding himself shamelessly into Ben, the long sleeves of Ben’s flannels falling down over his hands, and Ben takes in how small it makes him look. “Sure seemed like one to me.” 

“Well, it wasn’t.” 

“Wha-What’re you gonna do if I keep talking then?” Marcus pants. His voice is wiry and Ben feels a new heat pool in his stomach, coiled, pulsing. “Cover my mouth or somethin’? Gonna force me to be quiet, Ben?” Marcus clenches his lower stomach and his thighs tense under the light touch of where’s Ben’s arm rests, clearly working himself into a deeper frenzy with his own words. 

“You’re awful, Marcus,” Ben mutters and because it seems to be the action desired, the action that will tip Marcus over the edge, Ben slaps his palm over Marcus’s mouth, curls his fingers around his chin, and Marcus writhes happily beneath his grip. His eyes go wild and wide, his nostrils flaring like a bull, breaths coming out hot and humid, and he makes an odd, low noise that Ben has never heard come out of him; a warbling moan, maybe a whimper. 

“Close?” Ben husks, shoulder to shoulder with Marcus. 

Marcus nods frantically and lolls his head to the side to look over at Ben in the half light of the dark room, his eyes rolling up into his skull like when he laughs, his body looking both loose and taut at the same time, like he’s fraying. 

“Well. Uh.” Ben keeps working his wrist, flipping his thumb over the slit of Marcus’s cock to gather the precum there, and spread it evenly down his shaft. It’s mechanic at this point. “Go on with it then.” 

So Marcus goes on with it: his thighs trembling, his nails biting blunt crescent moons into Ben’s wrist, his breathing almost a high whistle now. He lets out a groaning sigh from behind Ben’s palm and his cock leaps, twitches like a dowsing rod near water, and then he’s cumming, dribbling over on Ben, mostly getting it on the front of the oversized flannel he’s wearing, and he’s eerily silent during it. He doesn’t cry out a name or huff out any moans, just screwing his eyes shut and holding Ben tight as he can like an anchor, his body wrenching and shuddering and pumping. 

Ben feels like an idiot, not doing anything else except for staring and stroking Marcus in slower pace. “There you go,” he says, unsure if he’s supposed to be talking. 

Marcus sags into the couch, his fingers unfurling from his hold on Ben’s wrist, and Ben pulls his other hand away, off Marcus’s mouth. 

“You alright in there?” Ben asks. 

Marcus nods, his eyes tired, half-lidded, and unfixed, and he takes Ben’s wrist again, pulls it up to his face, licks his own cum off Ben’s long, thick fingers, and Ben wrinkles his nose. 

“Jesus, Marcus,” he mutters, but his cock leaps in his sweatpants, ignored and still interested. 

“Sorry about your shirt, man,” Marcus says. His voice sounds bleached out. The Violent Femmes end and Johnny Cash switches on with a thudding drum and a sharp harmonica. 

Ben says, “It’s okay.” 

“Want me to-to uh- you want some help there?” Marcus cocks an index finger at Ben’s crotch and Ben flushes, shakes his head before he can think about it. 

“No uh. I’ll just clean up, alright? You can go grab another shirt if you’d like and I’ll - I got the bottles and food and all that.” Ben stands and starts to gather the white paper Chinese boxes, pinches a couple bottles between his fingers. 

Marcus yawns, stretches his stringy body into the couch. “Okay.” He starts to undo the buttons on Ben’s flannel and Ben goes to the kitchen, puts some of the leftovers in the fridge, puts everything else into the trash. 

He heads to the bathroom, closes himself in the small room, and looks in the mirror, studies his unshaven face, his wide body that barely fits the frame. Ben is convinced something physical should be changed about him now that him and Marcus have passed through a threshold, but the face staring back at him is the same as always. He washes his hands, lets the water run down the drain longer than it needs to. 

Ben’s phone chimes in his pocket and he startles, pulls it out, looks blankly down at it. 

**Henry:** _ Yo. Idk what your beer ape magic is but Dogmeat just texted me and said you guys are having a good time together. _

Ben swallows and puts his phone away without responding, slides out of the bathroom to peer in at Marcus who’s curled up on the couch, spooning a throw pillow, his lanky body curled around it, shirtless. His eyes are soft, tired, and the television is quietly playing a nature documentary on orangutans. Ben’s soiled flannel is on the floor in a neat fold. 

“Goodnight, Ben,” Marcus says without shifting his position, without moving his eyes away from the television. 

Ben slinks a couple baby steps back down the hall. “Night, Marcus.” 

**Author's Note:**

> oh no he's done it again lol sorry 
> 
> despite my being sorry if anyone else wants to populate this slice of the world with me straight up post anything im so lonely in here even if you ain't ever written or posted anything im so curious to see someone else post 
> 
> cheers
> 
> also lmk if the lads ever read fic on stream again lmao i can't always tune in live but i try to watch them later


End file.
